


Compromising

by kanadka



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hand Feeding, M/M, Master/Slave, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Politics, Public Sex, Spies & Secret Agents, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5947909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/kanadka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santik can't help liking his friend and fellow spy Remy - who's nice and funny and drop dead gorgeous - but he's not so keen on the theme of their latest intelligence operation. (A variant on fake relationship: fake slavery.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliencupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliencupcake/gifts).



> Treat for [chocolatebox2015](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/chocolatebox2015/). I really loved all the Original Work prompts but this one was my favourite! :D
> 
> as a writing goal, I was trying to keep the wordcount on the down side, so that the story would be short but sweet. It got away from me a bit, woops. I just love undercover spies so much mannn. It is very lightly dubious consent, and hence tagged, but it should be obvious that both characters want it (tho sometimes worry the other character doesn't).
> 
> edited to add _THE SUMMARY_ I can't believe I was missing this before. why am I allowed on the internet

Remy stops him on the way to the cantine. "We received a summons. It's the _Princess_ ," he whispers, and his great brown eyes are wide with fear and awe, so it can't be a joke. "We have to go."

"You couldn't have informed me sooner?" Santik hisses forward. He finds it hard to keep up with Remy's longer legs on a good day, let alone today, when his stomach protests any movement that isn't feeding himself. And he's still smudged with oil and grease. "Can't I at least stop to wash up?"

"Nope. Just got word. Come on!" Remy yanks him around the corner.

Given that they're travelling through the Nome city walls - eight hundred years old and falling apart as they are - they make it in record time: four and a half minutes before Remy shoves him down a hall and through a door he's never seen before. Still, the Princess is haughty and impatient. She more judges than looks at Santik. He tries to hide his greasy hands in his pockets. All that does is further blacken his filthy linen shirt. (Well, Santik's not given taxpayer money to _look pretty_ , unlike the Princess, resplendent in a gown of royal purple and gentle yellow with a train of sequins and pearls.)

"Good sirs," says the Princess by way of address.

Both Remy and Santik kneel. "Anointed by the gods is Her True Majesty," they wheeze as one.

"Stand. There is no time." They do. Santik looks around him. This small antechamber is deserted except for the Princess Herself and Councillor Dorpha, who is head of Her Royal Intelligence - the department that secretly both Santik and Remy work for, when they are not being a tinker and a baker.

They're being given a mission, Santik realises.

"What are our orders?" asks Remy, who must have realised it too.

"Four days hence sails a ship from Kladham Harbour to Lestinate, to my brother, bringing supplies, ammunition, and other sundries to him." Her brother, her bitter enemy, Ilfranis I. The Princess doesn't look happy. Maybe any mention, however roundabout, to her exile in crappy old Nome displeases her. But 'displeased' is also her default look, as far as Santik can tell.

"The voyage to Kladham is four days, through the mountains," she continues. "Hence there is no time to waste, you must leave immediately."

"Your job is to stop the ship from sailing," continues Councillor Dorpha. "We have other intelligence operatives on their way to collect what we need from the ship. But the sailing schedule has changed, and we cannot contact them. Word that the ship will leave in four days and not two weeks only arrived this morning. Without you, our operatives will not get there in time."

Remy interjects. "My Princess," he says, "we could get there in two days without having to go south through the mountains. Couldn't we just go immediately west, by Haarland?"

The Princess shakes her divine head. "You cannot go by Harland. You will be questioned and detained."

"Haarland's prince has designs on the Lestinate crown after Rizelle II.'s abdication," explains Dorpha.

"I do not trust him," the Princess adds.

"He... made an offer for her hand in marriage," Dorpha says.

"Of course, I have refused him," the Princess says primly.

"And so Haarland has closed their gates, under penalty of interrogation, to anyone lacking  Lestinate documentation, issued in the name of the False King Ilfranis." Dorpha finishes. _Now_ , the Princess looks displeased.

"So we'll go undercover!" Remy sounds positively delighted. Santik glances over at him to find that he also _looks_ positively delighted.

"How," asks the Princess.

"Haarland has a slave industry. They liaise with the black market in Nome," says Remy, like it's obvious.

" _What?_ " says Santik. First he's heard of it!

"It is true," admits the Princess, evidently unhappy.

Remy continues. "So, we'll pose as master and slave. Easy-peasy! We'll be at Kladham in time for dessert."

The Princess actually seems to consider it.

"My Princess," begins Santik, "forgive me, but - y-you can't be serious! You who were exiled by the False King for this issue?" For her unrepentant unacceptance of slavery!

"If you feel so bad about it," says Remy, "I'll be the slave."

"I-it's not that!" (It is mostly that.) "Your Royal Trueness, your principal claim to the Lestinate throne lies on your opposition to this issue. If this mission is traced back to you, you could lose the support you've gained!"

Dorpha interrupts. "That is a matter for our consideration, not yours."

"Remy Jol is an excellent actor," muses the Princess. "And Haarland is safer than the four-day trek through the mountains, where you may also lose time. That ship cannot be let to sail."

"Then, there's no choice," Remy replies. "You must grant us passage through Haarland!"

The Princess exchanges a look with Dorpha. "Can it be done?" Dorpha nods. "Have you an alias?"

"Messerin VII.," replies Dorpha. "The slave needs no name. But my forger needs a quarter hour to prepare the documents."

The princess closes her eyes. "I grant it," she says. "Mister Jol - do not forget your mission."

"Your Royal Trueness," says Remy, with his hand over his heart, "I will forget nothing."

She bows to Santik and Remy, and leaves the room.

After the door has closed, Dorpha whispers sternly to them both, "Wait where you are. _Don't_ go anywhere," before exiting.

Santik gives it thirty tense seconds. "Are you _crazy?!_ " he finally erupts. "Slavery?"

"Look, you don't have to get so upset about it! It's only a legend," says Remy.

"Yeah, and about that - Messerin the seventh is dead!"

Remy shrugs and rolls his eyes. "Haarland doesn't know that."

"Oh, what do you know about Haarland?" snaps Santik.

"More than _you_ do," Remy says coolly. "I know what I'm getting into. You should go pack your things. And maybe clean up." Santik's stomach growls. "And maybe eat something." Santik doesn't move. "Go on!" shouts Remy. "Since you're obviously so upset about this mission with me, why don't you take advantage of some time alone? I'll wait here."

Remy is the one who sounds upset. "Remy, it doesn't have anything to do with that," explains Santik. Of course it doesn't. How could it? Remy's beautiful, he's tall, with that healthy bronzed complexion, dark eyes, smooth dark hair ... he's every Lestinate's dream. He's Santik's dream, certainly. Who wouldn't want to spend time with him?

And somehow, he's become Santik's best friend - Santik, who's stocky and wan with unruly flax curls. The best thing Santik has going for him is his round cheeks and dimples, and those err on the side of charming in a dump like Nome, but they'll make him look like a simpleton in a city like Haarland.

No, Santik is the one who should be playing the slave, not Remy, who looks like royalty, like he could be related to the Princess Herself.

"Just leave," says Remy, so Santik does.

\--

They journey west to Haarland by a simple chariot-style wagon drawn by a donkey. Santik rides the donkey, while Remy sits in the wagon with their luggage (most of it on loan to Santik from Her Royal Intelligence, beautiful merchant clothes that cost more than a year's pay as a tinker).

Santik isn't sure who is worse done by. The donkey's no picnic but the wagon is top of the line for Nome, whch means it's probably salvaged from a bog and was over five hundred years old when it was thrown in. It creaks and rattles and more than once Santik thinks the path they take, beset with nothing more cumbersome than thick, wayward tree roots, will knock it apart. The gods help them when they get to the cobblestones of Haarland.

The voyage to the gates of Haarland is a day, and in that time Santik and Remy amuse themselves by making up stories of Messerin the seventh. It helps their legend, and also their friendship. Remy has a soothing manner about him, and Santik grows to believe that nothing bad will happen. Slavery is unlawful and immoral in Nome, where Santik was born and raised, but no culture is the same the world over. They won't change the ways of Haarland overnight, they only want to pass through. It's just a legend, after all. As long as they stick to their carefully-crafted story, no harm will befall them and the two agents can do their jobs as they should.

That's when they get to the gates.

Santik has never seen the gates of Haarland before. They are renowned for being one of the world's wonders outside Lestinate, and the drawings and sketches and paintings that Santik has seen don't do them a spot of justice. The city walls are thick masonry stone that give way to behemoth towers, which kiss via the gates, marvellous golden bars as tall as the towers. Interwoven through these are the figureheads of the state. All are half-animals: a half-man half-goat, a half-goat half-lion, a half-lion half-eagle, a half-eagle half-dragon, among a sculpted menagerie more; all have the famous wicked, tortured expressions of classic Haarland grotesque art. They gleam in the sun, and as the sun passes behind a cloud, the shafts of light and shadow trick Santik into thinking the figures are alive.

"Disembark and present papers," calls the guard at the left tower. The guard at the right tower keeps his crossbow pointed at Santik.

Santik does so. "The other one too," the guard says, pointing to Remy in the wagon.

"He's mine," says Santik smoothly. When the guard narrows his eyes Santik leans closer and whispers - as he and Remy have agreed - "He's part of the luggage. If you take my meaning."

The guard does, because with Remy curled up in the wagon, dressed in a _burlap sack_ , it's hard not to, and he nods with a sick grin. Disgusting that he should think Remy like goods. Santik keeps his face impassive.

The guard informs them that because they lack Lestinate documents - Nome won't do - and they don't have a royal summons to be in Haarland, they must present themselves to the citadel to explain themselves and pay duty, and the offices don't open until morning. Santik's disappointment must show on his face, as the guard elaborates, "Don't look so sad! It's a party up there. Your detainment will be fun."

Santik is given a letter from the guards at the city gates - they're comfortable around him, for all that he presents himself from Nome, because with Remy in the back of his wagon, he's clearly flouting normal Nomish ways - then a map and rough directions to the citadel. It's not hard to find - it's on a hill, and walled and gated off, brooding above the lower city. It's still two hours' walk.

By the time they reach the gates of the citadel and present the letter from the guards at the gates, the sun has set. Fifteen minutes earlier, they had begun to hear the sounds of the festivities: cries and whoops and hollers of joy, music and song both sung and strung, drums and cymbals and bells. The smells are even better, but Santik can't identify them all, and now that they're in Haarland, Remy isn't allowed to speak without being spoken to.

Past the gates, the sounds and smells are stronger. Santik finds that the entire citadel is in party mode. That's good - there's plenty of places for people to branch off and hide, if they need to. Behind him, Remy has a look of excitement that worries Santik.

The gates take his letter and peruse his documentation before announcing him forth. "Messerin VII. of the Greater Nome Area!" the guard cries. A few people look over with tepid interest. Then the guard spots Remy behind him. "Accompanied by a recent purchase!"

A hundred more heads swivel his way.

 _A merchant from Nome with a slave!_ Santik hears. _How exciting! He must be well-cultured. He must have gone native. They don't do that in Nome._ No, they do not, thinks Santik acidly.

Remy shuffles behind him as he walks through the citadel to find the market square. It's been good weather, and so there's no need for tents - just tables and tables, well-populated by Haarlanders, and resplendent with food.

Santik, as Messerin, does a few rounds at the banquet in the public tables in the main square. He sits never long at any one table and moves often. Every time he does, Remy follows behind, knocking into the back of his calves before kneeling behind his legs when Santik stops. It's terribly disconcerting.

An hour later he is deep in conversation with a Mr Kartal Milvet, a Haarland silk merchant, when Remy tugs on the leg of his trousers. He has been doing so for the past ten minutes but this is the first time he's done it quite so hard. Santik is less afraid of having to pay Royal Intelligence for the trousers' ruin than he is Remy pulling them down in Haarland's citadel.

He smiles beatifically to Milvet before he bends below the table. "What is your _problem?!_ " he growls.

"Think you can maybe drop some of that food? Y'know, accidentally?" Remy whines. "Santik, I'm _starving._ "

"I'll do what I can," replies Santik. He rights himself and - in front of Milvet once more - scolds Remy, "And ... behave yourself! Uh, yeah." That sounds masterly. "He's just hungry," Santik explains.

"Didn't you feed him before you came?" asks Milvet.

Santik nods. "Sure. He's been fed and watered. I took care of him before we arrived."

Milvet sighs. "That was at least four hours ago. Given his weight class he should eat every three." Milvet should know. In his off-hours, Milvet's a slave trader himself, as he has confided in Santik as Messerin. Milvet looks around. "You're not supposed to do it at a banquet, but... eh, nobody's watching. And you're not from here. They'll just think you're weird."

So Santik takes a saucer and begins piling some of the food on it. Milvet laughs. "What?" asks Santik.

"When you fed him earlier, it wasn't with one of those, was it?"

This sounds like a question Santik should say no to. "Oh, of course not!" he laughs. "I would never... uh, why?"

Milvet shakes his head. "You're from Nome, after all. You and those stupid laws that False Princess Thove keeps belching out!" Santik keeps his smile with some difficulty. Good to look like a simpleton, sometimes. It keeps people from seeing his ire. "It's not so surprising you don't know how to work a slave. How long have you had him?"

"N-not long," Santik says. This is verging on dangerous territory.

"Well, porcelain isn't fit for servants. He'll have to eat from your hands." A simpleton's face or no, Santik knows that his expression betrays his shock.

But Milvet seems serious. So Santik places a thick slice of the braised goose breast on his palm and atop that dollops a spoonful of gingered turnip, then lowers his hand below the table.

Remy's eyes stare up at him with immense gratitude as he takes Santik's hand in his. _Thank you,_ he mouths around Santik's thumb, before he eats, as delicately as he can out of someone's hand. Santik is a little enraged to find that Remy even manages to make something like this look graceful.

He looks good like that, thinks Santik idly, Remy's hair swept over his high forehead, and his eyes downcast, long dark lashes against his high cheekbones.

Then Remy's tongue darts out against Santik's skin, licking up traces of the gravy from the goose, and Santik stops thinking anything at all.

Milvet is talking again. Santik has kind of been tuning him out. He tries to reactivate an interest in the conversation. "... but as an amateur historian, I really feel the reason for the dismantlement of the Jerran garrison at Prinesch can be traced back to the import of Southern Noric flint, because for arrowheads you can't beat ..."

It's impossible. This conversation is just too boring, and meanwhile Remy's _tongue_ is between his fingers, with every swipe of it on Santik's skin making him shiver.

He chances a look down. Remy is studying him. Santik can hardly breathe, and doesn't move. He feels frozen, suspended by the weight of Remy's gaze. A bead of sweat trails down the nape of his neck and sinks beneath his tunic's golden collar. Remy opens his mouth and takes the tip of Santik's index finger inside it. He closes his lips around it and sucks it in softly, watching Santik from below as he laves Santik's finger with his tongue.

"That is _fascinating,_ " lies a red-faced Santik to Milvet, slamming his other hand on the table for emphasis. "You know, I've never thought about it that way!" He has no idea what they're talking about.

Milvet takes this as a sign to continue prattling on, and he does so for about a half hour while Santik discreetly feeds Remy. Santik listens to approximately none of Milvet's jabber. He is only aware of the weight of Remy's body against his leg and Remy's tongue on his skin.

At last Milvet makes his departure, and Santik too stands, using Milvet's distraction to steal a last morsel of goose for Remy. "By the way," says Milvet, "do you name them in Nome?"

"I - don't understand?" asks Santik.

"Your slaves. We don't, here. But Lestinate, they do. What in Nome?"

"I know of only two others in Nome who have slaves," he lies. "It is not a popular movement."

Milvet snorts. "Obviously, given Thove's policies."

Remy snuffles gently in his hand, his face deep in Santik's palms to lick up the grease, and Santik really regrets standing up now. At least a merchant's trousers are roomy, and they'll be walking soon. His half-hardness can dissipate. "I call him Hoad," he croaks out, then shoots a glare Remy's way and mutters under his breath, "rhymes with _toad_ , which is what he is."

Remy grins and has the audacity to wink, before he kisses Santik's fingertips clean.

Santik hastens to the exit but can't make it there before he hears, "What are you doing leaving? This is a night-long party!"

He turns. It's Ghare, another merchant he met earlier, along with a few others of his group. "Yes, well," says Santik, "I have to leave in the morning, I have business further west of here."

"The harbour?" guesses Ghare's companion, the Lady Fram.

Santik grumbles. Did she have to guess so correctly? He prepares himself to pretend he knows nothing about it.

But Lady Fram continues talking. "It makes sense," she reasons, "cuts quickest from Nome to go by here. Still, haven't you got the whole night ahead of you? Your slave can drive you, you can sleep in the wagon."

"I want to hear more about Nome!" says Ghare, as though Nome is a place worth visiting. "Tell us of Nome!"

Santik has already told everybody about Nome. It's been bankrupt for centuries and the newest building is three hundred and fifty-seven years old. There's nothing more to tell! But for some reason - probably the price of liquor and their 'quaint' out-dated mores - these Haarlanders think it's the most fascinating place.

So Santik lets them pull him around the citadel to a small, thin road off the centre, connected to a set of small paths between the buildings.

More than once Santik catches glimpses of a couple - or a trio - or more - enjoying all the perverse pleasures the night offers. He hopes his blush is hidden by the evening.

It isn't. "You can't be that innocent," murmurs Vool, of the Baker's Guild, "not with that beauty you've got, at your heels." Santik clears his throat and flushes harder, and Vool cackles.

At last they reach a tavern, and they pull Santik in. It's a lively place already and this group - Ghare and the Lady Fram and their compatriots - waste no time in adding to it. And maybe there's something about this place - the atmosphere, the company, the wine - that really agrees with him. Milvet and a few friends find them awhile later, and Santik finds Milvet is not quite so boring anymore. Finally, Santik starts to loosen up and have a good time.

He only realises he's completely lost track of Remy - who is no longer at his heels - when someone in the tavern says, "Hey, there's a show outside!" and they all go out to watch. Santik has no idea what is meant by 'a show' until he follows Ghare's group out, and finds Remy by a guild hall, curled up by the curb, with three men and a girl above him. The girl wields a knife, and of the three men, only one is still wearing trousers. One wears a brown sack like Remy's, and the other is simply nude from the waist down.

Santik also realises the time. It's been _three hours_ they've been in the tavern and it's two in the morning.

Both these items suffice to sober him a little, but it has been a _lot_ of wine. Besides, he reasons drunkenly, Remy can take care of himself.

"Say, Messerin, isn't that one yours?" asks Ghare.

"Sure is," says Vool. "You're not so good at keeping him in line, are you? Wandering off, getting himself into trouble. Doesn't he obey you at all?"

Remy can take care of himself, true, but if he does, he'll completely blow their covers.

"Aw, leave him alone!" calls Milvet. "He's a new owner."

"Why'd you start with one like that?" asks Vool. "Ambitious. Overreaching your bounds a bit?"

"Where'd you even get something so pretty in a place like Nome, anyway?" asks Ghare.

And now they're calling into question _both_ their covers. This isn't good.

"Go on," says Milvet. "Go and get him back from those guys and we'll hit the next tavern."

"How do I do that?" Santik murmurs.

Milvet shrugs. "Do you have a weapon?"

Oh sure, he has a few. There's the knives that the citadel guardsmen missed - in his wagon, which is in the stables, which is an hour's walk from here and therefore completely useless. Santik also has three years of Advanced Lestinate Corps-fighting. But a guy like Messerin wouldn't know any of those moves. Santik shakes his head.

It doesn't seem to worry Milvet. "Then, y'know, just give 'em a show. Everybody likes a show. And that's something that'll show that the slave only accepts you as his master. The others will lay off."

Santik narrows his eyes. "By give them a show," he says slowly, "you mean... what, exactly?"

Milvet points to across the market square, where a group has gathered around a pair of burlapped people, whose mouths are busy and work the circle person by person, like the hands of a clock.

Santik pales. "In public?" he croaks out.

"Man, you Nome guys sure are weird about stuff," says Milvet.

But Santik doesn't have much choice in the matter, so out he goes.

Upon perceiving him, Remy cringes into a ball. "P-please, master," he begs, "I didn't mean it!"

One of the two men - not the broader man, who is wearing trousers, but the taller man, who isn't - yells, "I found this little imp rootin' through the Archivists' Guildhall. You wanna maybe explain yourself? Is this some kinda Nome trick?"

"I assure you it isn't," says Santik.

"Please, master," murmurs Remy.

"Shaddup!" says the broader man.

And then he backhands him.

The hairs on the back of Santik's neck stand straight up. Good that he hasn't a weapon. He'd throw a knife in this guy's throat for daring to touch Remy like that.

But all a character like Messerin can do is say aloud, while keeping a calm that Santik hardly feels, "That isn't your property."

"And he's yours?" asks the broader man.

"Well, he isn't saying 'master' only because he likes the sound of it," Santik argues nastily.

"Then prove it! You got a leash for him?"

Santik of course hasn't got anything of the sort, but Remy is kneeling in front of him, looking terrified, and has a hand on his thigh, whispering and pleading, and the people in the square have already started to shout, "Show! Show! Show!"

When in Haarland, thinks Santik, and sighs. "What's your name?" he snaps at Remy.

Remy falls to his feet, his head bowed. "Hoad, sir, you call me Hoad," he says, "you have since you bought me."

Santik bends down and takes Remy's chin in his hands, his fingers curled around Remy's jaw, and his thumb pressed on Remy's lips, to tilt his face up. "And who do you belong to, Hoad?" he asks silkily.

"You, master," whispers Remy, "you, only you." He kisses Santik's thumb in an excellent rendition of reverence and nudges Santik's hand open to fit his cheek inside. Remy's skin is absurdly soft, petal-smooth. Santik shouldn't notice this. "I'm sorry, master, I got lost. It's not my fault, I don't recognise this place."

Is that enough for them?

"Prove it," snaps the taller man.

"Master," says Remy, and looks up at him with those big brown eyes of his. "With your permission, I - gladly, I shall - I demonstrate my devotion." His hands paw at Santik's expensive trousers.

Santik waits a moment. Is he going to go through with this?

All the nearby faces, who aren't watching the other show, are watching them, and they're attracting a crowd. What the hell did Remy think he was off doing, anyway?

"Very well," says Santik, feeling worse about this by the minute.

Santik is not as stupid as he knows he looks, and so the innuendo that people have been bandying about has not gone unnoticed or undeciphered. He knows what they mean by 'a show'. He knows what they mean by 'ownership'. They think Hoad is _that_ kind of slave, and to be fair to them, it's impossible to imagine someone as beautiful as Remy being purchased for household chores.

Remy's not stupid, either. Without talking, without asking, both of them are on the same page. They wouldn't work for Royal Intelligence if they couldn't be.

But it's still a shock when the cool night air of Haarland hits his naked belly and thighs, as Remy undoes the lacings on the merchant trousers and slips them down his hips enough to permit his face at Santik's groin.

He's really going to do this, thinks Santik, wide-eyed. I am really going to let him do this.

The things we do for the crown.

Remy buries his nose between Santik's legs and - Santik gasps, glad of the building's support behind him - Remy's tongue, invisible from sight of the crowd, traces a line along his cock, from head to root. Santik is still soft, but then Remy uses his tongue to lift him into his mouth and he sucks in the same way he sucked Santik's fingers: with desperation and hunger. Santik won't be soft long.

Beside them, the other two men are doing much the same thing. The one with the sack on - the slave, Santik realises in dismay - is servicing the girl with the knife, and the taller man has a bottle of - something, Santik isn't sure, but he is aware enough of these sorts of dalliances to suspect he knows what will happen next and what's going where.

Over by the tavern, Ghare, Vool, Milvet and the lady Fram, and all the other people in the tavern who drank with him and clinked glasses only minutes ago, and are now watching him be _publicly fellated!_ \- seem to be enjoying the view. They have a strange manner of enjoyment. They don't ogle, they don't preen to watch, and they don't point or stare. (Thank the gods that nobody is remarking on Santik's size. Not that much of that is visible outside of Remy's mouth.) They act like they're well aware of what is happening but are commenting on it lightly as a particularly good sport.

Remy is putting a lot of effort into this. He sucks hard, keeps his tongue in motion and hums around him like he's enjoying every second of this. Santik can't help looking down. He shouldn't have done that. Remy presents such an attractive picture. He's so beautiful, in the moonlight, on his knees, his eyes closed and his lips stretched wide. He sinks his face between Santik's legs like he longs to be there, arching into it and moaning.

Santik shivers, and decides with what few brain cells remain that Remy plays a clever game. He'll finish quicker and they can get the hell out of here.

Next to them, the slave is now on all fours in front of the girl, and upon his back sits the broader man, directing orders to his tall friend who has his cock in hand and aims it inside.

They would have done that to Remy. They perhaps expect that he does that to Remy. Nightly. Lifts the sack that he wears and buries himself inside. Santik shivers again and barely suppresses a groan.

He doesn't exactly know what's protocol here. He's not enthused about everybody in the tavern watching him come, but his thighs are already shaking with the strain of standing during an assault like this. And it's clear nobody in Haarland finds it weird to do this in public, because the girl is on her second orgasm to the sound of - polite applause?? This place has got to be kidding him.

Neither does Santik really feel like faking it. (Not that he has to. Remy has his lips around Santik's cock, his guilty dreams of over a year come true at last, he's never been harder and he aches so badly!)

Well. Show be damned. Santik tries to remain impassive. Sure, he's half in love and too far gone but Messerin perhaps is the kind of guy who takes this whole master business seriously.

But it's so difficult! Remy moans like an angel.

At last, Remy finally pulls himself off. "Please, master," he groans, "show me you enjoy this? I would be crushed if you think it's unsatisfactory." He places Santik's hands on his hair before diving in again.

Remy's hair is much softer than Santik imagined. He sighs and rakes his fingers through Remy's satiny dark locks. And maybe his foot slips, or his hip twitches, but he pitches forward, shifting deeper into Remy's mouth, sliding across his tongue. Remy moans loud enough for Santik to hear him over the applause, and arches into Santik's legs, with his thighs spread wide under the sack he wears.

How can he _be_ so good at this? 'Remy Jol is an excellent actor', had said the Princess. She wasn't joking! Santik's not looking forward to what will happen afterwards, when Santik has to face him and see that mouth, those eyes, that hair. How will he be able to think of Remy any other way?

He'll hate me, frets Santik. He'll hate him because for all his cleverness, all their friendship, Santik can't stop thinking about him on his knees because it's the hottest thing he's ever seen in his life.

Remy pulls off again. "Oh, _please_ ," he murmurs, breathless and torn, and seems to find it hard to leave Santik alone, for he keeps leaning in to flick his tongue over the head of Santik's cock. "Please, master, ah, grant me the permission..."

"Permission," whispers Santik, because he doesn't trust his voice not to waver if he speaks louder. "What?"

Remy raises the burlap sack to expose himself. There, between his muscular thighs, he's hard. Good gods above, he's _hard_ from this. Santik doesn't know what to think but his body sure does, cock twitching in front of Remy's mouth. "Master, may I?" he asks, twisting the hem of the sack in his grip in desperation. "You know what doing this to you does to me. Please, have mercy on me - let me touch..."

Shakily, Santik nods, and Remy swallows him once more, as he palms himself, his hand frantic.

Okay. No, he was definitely wrong, _this_ is the hottest thing he's ever seen. And all the people drop away,  spectres on the outskirts of his peripheral vision, chanting _show!_ and clapping and hooting. All Haarland falls away. None of it matters. Nothing matters except Remy, who makes him breathless and speechless with every movement of his tongue, lips and mouth, and who whines needily around Santik's cock as he touches himself.

Santik gasps and cries out once, his fingers tightening in Remy's hair, as he spills inside his mouth.

Remy lets him catch his breath first, then releases him, licking the head clean as he continues to jerk himself. He spends on the ground between Santik's expensive merchant shoes with a soft cry that he muffles in Santik's hip.

"I'm sorry," he says again, panting and trembling, "that I got lost. I won't let myself be lost again, I'm so sorry, master."

The group from the tavern is giving them a round of applause. "It's alright," says Santik, petting Remy's hair.

It is _not_ alright, he thinks.

He lets Milvet and the rest of them drag him to the next tavern and sits heavily at the table. Someone plunks a tankard of ale in front of him and he says a monotonous thanks.

At his feet and under the table sits Remy, and the weight of him against Santik's shins and ankles is no longer as comforting.

"So," he mutters to Ghare, "did that suffice for the tastes of Haarland?"

"Are you _joking?!_ " Ghare exclaims. "It was fantastic!"

"It's clear you two have an established relationship," adds Milvet. Santik snorts. "With you in the upper hand, of course."

"Of course," repeats Santik tonelessly.

"It wasn't as... _athletic_ as some, we might say," remarks Vool.

"Hey. For someone who isn't from here, it sure was something! I was touched, you know, that you'd go so far for us," Ghare says.

Santik trades his self-pity and -flagellation for suspicion. "How do you mean?"

"Well! Haarland knows and understands that our customs aren't the way of everyone," says Ghare. "All part of being a metropolis. We're very accepting of others' ways."

"Are you saying," says Santik slowly, "that I didn't have to do that?"

"But we're really, really glad you did," says the Lady Fram with a gentle smile. "It makes you one of us!"

"One of us!" the group choruses as one, and lifts tankards.

Santik puts his head in his hands.

They don't make it to the next tavern. His new friends are sad to see him go, but Santik is exhausted in more ways than one and he wasn't even doing any of the work. He had to rouse Remy from his nap on Santik's feet and that was sign enough.

When they finally get back to the inn, Santik is offered separate lodging for his slave. They have communal slave quarters, explains the innkeeper, for those who prefer it. Santik is sorely tempted, but a look from Remy stifles that thought. "He'll sleep with me," says Santik, wishing it sounded better than it does.

"Ah! very good, sir," says the innkeeper. "I can relate. One so beautiful I should want to keep with me all the time, lest more displays like that earlier tonight be needed."

Santik blushes. "You've heard about that, then?"

"Of course! Everybody's talking about it," he replies. "The city is so starved for entertainment, you see, so when festivities like these come about, two whole weeks of food and drink, it's expected that the slaves of the city get quite the workout, there were some excellent shows -"

"Yes thanks," Santik grinds from between his teeth. "Where's the key?"

Once in the room, the door closes behind them with a heavy thunk. Remy doesn't say anything, and Santik is similarly inclined. How does one even bring up a topic like this? _Sorry I fucked your face, but I kind of had to?_ God, Remy must hate him.

"I'm sorry," says Remy, breaking their silence.

" _You're_ sorry?!" Santik exclaims.

"You didn't want this and I've forced you into it because it's your job," Remy says miserably.

"Of course I didn't want this!" he erupts. "What must you _think_ of me? What kind of person do you think I am, who would want to do this to you!?"

Remy is silent. "Go to sleep, Santik," he says at last, and his voice is cautious. "We'll talk on the road once we leave this place."

Except that there's nowhere for the slave to sleep. Santik looks at Remy, then at the bed, then at Remy again and puts his hands on his hips.

"I'll sleep on the floor," Remy decides.

"No floor nothing," says Santik, feeling guilty. "You take the bed."

"I can't take the bed!" he argues. "If we don't wake up before morning call - which, by the way, is in three hours - they'll walk right in and find me on the bed and you on the floor. Then what will they think of you? It'll ruin your cover!"

"I don't care about the cover anymore!" Santik snaps. "I'm not taking the bed if you're on the floor."

"Well _I'm_ not taking the bed if _you're_ in it," says Remy. "You've made it quite clear how you feel."

Santik is crushed. "I've - made -?"

"Just go to sleep!"

"No - I'm not - I'm not even tired." It's half a lie. He's exhausted but this conversation has got him enraged and terrified in equal proportion. He sits down on the bed. "Sit," he says, pointing to the place next to him.

Remy doesn't move.

"Do it," he says sternly.

Remy does, though he doesn't make eye contact. He folds his arms over his chest and sits as far away from Santik as he can.

Maybe ordering him around isn't the best way to go after a display of ownership like earlier. "I'm the one who should be sorry," says Santik. "I understand why you're mad at me. There's -" he sighs, defeated, "there's nothing that can fix this, is there?"

"It's my fault," Remy says. "I made you do all this. This - Haarland - it was all my idea."

"No, you were right. It's the only way to get to Kladham in time." This Santik understands.

"Yeah, but I didn't mean to force you to..." Remy trails off, uncomfortable. "To do something like that. You were forced."

Santik shrugs. "It's not untrue."

"You don't even _like_ me," Remy says, and Santik laughs derisively.

"Oh please," he says. "That's definitely not the case, who couldn't like you? I just didn't want to treat you like that." Remy still looks upset. "Like you're not even human, when in fact you're better than me in every way, and that's not even taking into account how I feel ab-"

Santik stops. He's almost said too much. But Remy looks up at him with a shy hope.

Whatever, Remy will know soon enough. He may as well know now.

"How I feel about you," he finishes. "Forced or not, what I did tonight, how I did it - it's awful. You must hate me for it."

"I didn't hate it," Remy confesses. He shrugs, self-deprecating, and inches closer on the bed. "If it were anyone other than you, I might. But I trust you. I like you, so."

The pain in his chest is nearly unbearable, he breathes in shallow small dips, his pulse is racing and he feels light-headed. This is what it's like to have your heart broken, thinks Santik. Remy trusts him - Remy likes him.

"Actually it's something the opposite, it's kind of fun," continues Remy. He clears his throat. "And maybe a little bit hot," he murmurs. "I-in a strange way!" he adds quickly, at Santik's torn expression. "Really strange. I am strange. I do realise that."

"Are you," begins Santik. He's not sure how to ask this. "Is this why you asked for this? To go to Haarland?" Because it's all starting to make sense now - why Remy insisted on Haarland, thought up this particular cover...

Remy shakes his head. "No! No, that's not why!"

"You support this," Santik realises. "How can you be from Nome and support this?"

Remy takes a deep breath. Then he says, "I'm not from Nome."

"But, you told me..."

"I lied," says Remy.

Santik nods, shaky, frozen. "I see," he murmurs, glaring at the floor.

"I can't tell you everything. It's - orders. It's classified," Remy admits.

"What else are you lying about?" whispers Santik.

Remy shuffles closer to him on the bed, so closely that their thighs touch. He leans over and curls a lock of Santik's hair around his finger. It's enough to surprise Santik into looking his way, and when he does, Remy says, his voice a low vow, "Not this," before kissing him once on the lips.

It lasts a second. Maybe less. But to Santik it stretches on, and the minute details like the way Remy's soft lips press against his then slowly release him, bit by bit, seem to linger. When it's all over and Remy has backed up a little - not enough by platonic standards - Santik can't stop thinking about whether it really happened, and how the way his mouth tingles tells him it did.

"I don't support what Ilfranis does," says Remy. "But - it's possible that... I might not support Thove."

Santik sits bolt upright.

The name is an expression of truth. One gives up the name, to bear only truth, as the old tales go. Giving voice to the word declares one's beliefs, which is partly why Santik's been so enraged here in Haarland - they bandy about the True Princess' name like it's any old common word, which displays flagrantly their disbelief in her. Meanwhile, he hasn't once heard anyone string together the syllables il-fra-nis.

It raises another question. What is Remy lying about? If he's not from Nome, and he disavows the Truth of the Princess, then... is it possible he's a spy?

But he doesn't believe the Truth of False King Ilfranis, either.

"Who else is there?" asks Santik.

Remy smiles grimly. "Well, that's the thing," he says, but elaborates no further. "We should sleep."

Santik's hand shoots out to grab Remy by the burlap on his chest. It wrinkles in his clutch, the sound like crumpling paper. "Stay with me," he says.

Remy swallows. "If they come and find us -"

"I don't care. The gods know what they think of people from Nome, after last night's events. Messerin the seventh is either the strangest merchant of Nome or the most beloved by Haarlanders, maybe both."

"They liked that, eh?" Remy is grinning.

Santik glares.

"Did... _you_ like that?"

Santik doesn't say anything.

Remy leans forward, and says sultrily, "I did," and kisses him again.

==

They spend a day in Kladham fixing the ship's departure. In the end, it requires a combination of bureaucracy and good old-fashioned sabotage, but Remy and Santik see to it that she won't sail for another week.

What it is the Princess wants with the ship isn't clear. At first Santik had thought perhaps it was transporting slaves, but the cargo doesn't contain people, only foodstuffs and other equipment. Armaments? No, although there is a box of flint in the corner, and Milvet wouldn't stop talking about how that influences armies.

But it isn't his job to figure out what the Princess wants. They wait around in Kladham for a few days more until the first members of Royal Intelligence arrive. The agent in charge of the operation gives them some of their camping gear, and Santik and Remy make preparations for the four-day journey back to Nome through the mountains in the south.

They're _not_ going through Haarland again.

The final surprise comes during their debriefing with the Princess and the Councillor Dorpha.

"And there were no problems in Haarland?" asks Dorpha.

Santik is tempted to speak. But he holds his tongue. It's Remy's choice if he wants to declare what happened.

Remy doesn't say a word.

"Good," judges Dorpha. "We might send you back for further infiltration missions."

"What?" Santik erupts. "You want us to go back to that crazy place?"

The Princess nods. "From your reports, it seems that Messerin VII. was exceedingly successful in establishing connections and friends. We could exploit these."

"I suppose so," Santik says sullenly. But does it have to be them? The gods forbid the Haarlanders want to wring more shows out of Messerin VII. and his property.

"The success in that city is an excellent sign," says Dorpha. "We don't have any other ways into the city that are nearly as strong."

"It may become useful," the Princess adds. "For some time, Haarland has withheld from us some important documents and relics. Should these return to the True City of Nome, it would be a crippling hit in the Lestinate Falsehood."

Santik looks over at Remy, whose face is impassive, head downcast.

Documents. That's what he went to the Archivists' Guildhall to steal, isn't it?

But Remy doesn't say anything.

He's keeping these documents, not handing them over. Documents - or relics - no, it would have to be documents, for what else could he transport on his person while dressed in a burlap sack, he had no bags, nothing large, it would have to be made flat.

He could have curled it around his body, Santik supposes.

And the sack made a crinkling paper-like sound when Santik touched him.

And then Remy had kissed him. Why? Because he liked Santik, or to make him ignore what he'd heard? A seduction? or distraction?

Was the rest of that night in Haarland - Remy held him until dawn - a distraction? Was what happened in the mountains - a slow exploration of their bodies, Remy's beauty finally bared to him after a year of fantasies, making out by the campfire, sex under the moons and stars - just following through?

There are too many lies between them, thinks Santik, angry and hurt.

The Princess and Dorpha grace them with a bow - the Princess' is slight, Dorpha's much more gracious, but Dorpha isn't royal after all - and exit the small antechamber, leaving them alone.

Santik waits until he can hear no more steps down the hall before he stands in front of Remy.

He has to play this wisely. As much as it hurts to think about, he can't trust Remy as long as Remy keeps _lying_ to him. And he still can't figure out whether Remy is on the Princess' side or Ilfranis' - or his own.

The gods only know how dangerous Remy is. Santik has had a glimpse of it. They both went through training, and now Santik's seen more of Remy and his lean and muscled body. Santik is fairly certain he'd be a decent opponent, but he's not Remy's equal in height or grace. And that's if Remy hasn't got a weapon on him.

Could he do that? wonders Santik. Sleep with me, get me off, kiss me, love me, then kill me?

But that's what a good Intelligence agent does, isn't it?

"You figured it out, didn't you," says Remy.

"To be honest with you," says Santik - who would _really appreciate_ some honesty in return - "I don't know if I did. I know you have the documents."

"You didn't tell the Princess," Remy adds. "You could have told her what I stole in Haarland."

"I want to trust you," says Santik. "I want _nothing_ more. How long have we known each other? And with everything that's happened recently... But I can't do that unless you give me a little more information about what you're doing, and why. Tell me," he urges.

The chamber is silent. Remy doesn't speak.

"Or," he says nervously, "I suppose you could put a knife in my gut. Messerin the seventh is already dead. And nobody will miss one ugly little tinker from a place like Nome. This would clean things up for you."

Remy paces around him. "What if I tell you everything, and you don't like it? It would be your duty to turn me in. So I can't tell you. It's as simple as that. Better if you don't get mixed up in this."

"Does anybody else know what you're doing?"

Remy shakes his head.

"So you'll just do everything alone, is that it?" asks Santik. "I'm sure you'll succeed with those odds! That doesn't seem fair."

"It's not about fairness, Santik!" Remy frowns. "It's about how I could possibly ask you to grant your allegiance to me over Thove. And don't say that's not what I'm asking, because it is. If you trust me about this, then you renounce your trust in her. That's why I can't tell you. If your only other option is to go along with what I'm doing because I'm dangerous, because you fear for your life, because you think I'll kill you if I tell you the truth and you don't like what you hear, isn't that just as bad as forcing you? I can't ask you to do that."

"Sure you can," says Santik.

"Why, because you're my friend?"

"No," says Santik, "because I love you."

There, he's said it.

Remy stops pacing and circling him. He looks like he's had the wind kicked out of him. His face is blank. He says nothing.

With his pulse beating against the inside of his skull and his throat tight, Santik says, "I shouldn't, because you've been lying to me. I shouldn't, because you're completely out of my league. I shouldn't, because I have no chance with you, because you don't feel the same. Or so I thought, until Haarland," he adds dryly. "But Haarland posed more questions than it answered. Four days we spent in the mountains and I've never been so close to anyone, and you're still lying to me. No, I shouldn't, but I do."

"Santik," breathes Remy.

"So you think you don't have the right to ask for my allegiance, and I think you've already had it for some time now," finishes Santik. "I keep wondering how bad it could be, what you're not telling me, what's the worst you could be doing. And I keep thinking you're planning a coup, and if you are - I'd. Well. I think I'd follow you, in the end."

Born in Nome, sworn allegiance to the True Princess in Exile, and Santik would probably let Remy lead him against her. Of course Santik loves him, what else would make him do that?

"You'd follow me because you love me," says Remy.

"I'd follow you to the ends of the earth," says Santik darkly. "Now, I'm hoping you've got the good sense not to lead me there, but even if you don't, I'd go."

Remy lifts his chin up and bends to kiss him once on the lips.

Is this an answer? Is this pity? Is this how he dies, with a kiss on the lips and a hot stab of a blade? Santik has no idea.

But the blade never comes, and Remy releases him only to lean in further and murmur the following in his ear:

"My name is Remontrix the second. I am Thove's youngest brother - the rest are believed dead except for Ilfranis. That makes me third in line to the Lestinate throne, and those papers I stole in Haarland prove it. If you love me, then help me find my other siblings. And if we can't do that, help me to the Throne of Truth."

He meets Remy's eyes. For a guy who jokes a lot, Remy has never looked more serious. It's a coup, but unlike anything he could have imagined.

Sometimes Santik cannot believe his life. Those times are always because of something Remy's done. It's becoming a pattern.

"Okay," is all Santik can say, and the more he thinks about it, the more it becomes so. He can't imagine it will be easy. He's sure there's a lot of work on the road ahead, the least of it being how they're going to manage to cover up their treason.

And swiftly on the heels of that thought is the more unbelievable, the more shocking, which bursts from him in dismay. "By the gods. The things we did in Haarland. In the mountains. I've been - with a prince?"

The seriousness of the moment collapses. Remy snorts and it turns from that into laughter. "That's what you care about? Out of everything I just said!"

"I-it's a little shocking!" says Santik. "Especially the part about Haarland! You - you were wearing a _sack_ , Remy!"

Remy laughs even harder. He's giddy with giggles and looks nothing like a prince, only Remy - his friend, his fellow Intelligence agent. At last his merriment bubbles away, and Remy says, "You know, they're probably going to send us back there."

"Yeah. The things we do for the crown," he says, shaking his head.

Remy grins and tucks a lock of hair behind Santik's ear. Santik is keenly aware of how close he's standing. "They'll want more shows," he adds.

"The things I do for you," replies Santik with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE it's prince/male commoner too HAHAH


End file.
